by Paul Doherty
‘I was,’ the white-faced nun gasped. ‘And then I visited the cemetery to lay flowers on Dame Richolda’s grave.’ She paused, mouth gaping. ‘I can’t say,’ she spluttered. ‘You must come! Mother, you must come – and your guests, please!’
Dame Constance collected her cloak and coolly lit two tapers. She gave one to the infirmarian and, followed by the knight and clerk, walked out of the convent, through the cold darkness, around the church and into the cemetery. The graveyard was bleak. A night breeze rustled the yew trees and sent the dry leaves of autumn fluttering across the wet grass, while the wooden grave crosses creaked and moved in their beds of earth.
Alexander looked around and shivered. He cursed as an owl flew down, almost skimming their heads as it pursued some small night animal into the corner of the graveyard. He saw the ghostly wings flutter a little, the bird swooped, there was a thin scream and the bird of night rose and disappeared into the dark branches of a tree. Dame Veronica hurried before him and stopped in the middle of the cemetery, which was dominated by a great wooden cross carved in the Celtic fashion. A small stone altar lay beneath it and, in front of the altar, Alexander glimpsed three upturned crosses. Dame Veronica pointed, then turned away. Sir Godfrey took one of the tapers and squatted down, Alexander standing behind him. They stared, hearts chilling at the sights that greeted them, trying to ignore the gasps and cries of the abbess.
‘Who could have done that?’ Dame Constance hissed. ‘Some macabre joke!’
‘Three crosses,’ Sir Godfrey said thoughtfully.
He pulled one out of the ground and placed it flat on the earth. He drew his dagger and prised loose the dead bat that had been pinned to the centre of the crosspiece. He gouged the cross where his name had been crudely scrawled.
‘Three crosses,’ he murmured. ‘Each with a bat nailed through it and our names carved beneath: Sir Godfrey Evesden, Alexander McBain and Dame Edith Mohun.’
He got to his feet and kicked down the other two crosses, then, trying to control his fury, he stacked the three crosses on top of each other.
‘Dame Constance?’
‘Yes, Sir Godfrey?’
‘Have oil poured over these and burn them immediately.’
The abbess nodded at the infirmarian. ‘Do it!’ she ordered quietly. ‘And do it now! Get a scullion from the kitchen to help you!’
Dame Constance then led her guests back to the warm cosiness of her parlour.
‘Who did that?’ she asked, slamming the door behind her. ‘Is it some scholar’s joke?’
‘No.’ Sir Godfrey leaned against the fireplace, sipping from his wine as he stared into the fire. He looked over his shoulder at the white-faced clerk. ‘It’s beginning,’ he said. ‘We have learnt the tune, we have memorized the steps and now the dance of death is about to begin. Dame Edith is right: the Strigoi know we are in Oxford and they have sent us our first warning.’
Both men returned to their rooms, promising themselves and Dame Constance that they would not mention this matter to anyone. They washed and changed, each taking great care with his toilet, until a lay servant came to invite them down to the abbess’s comfortable refectory – a small hall with a raised platform under a blue and gold canopy. Dame Constance sat in the centre, with Dame Edith on her right and Lady Emily on her left. The two men sat opposite. At first the conversation was stilted and Alexander became convinced that the exorcist knew something was wrong. However, both men had eyes only for Emily, who looked ravishing in a white veil bound by a gold circlet and a blue and silver gown lined with costly sable fur. Her every movement was delicate and both men caught her exquisite perfume, a deep musk mingled with some sweet herbs. She looked at them coyly and Dame Edith found it difficult to conceal her smile. She is a minx, she thought, pure steel hidden in the softest velvet; she has a deep fondness for both of these men and intends playing them like a fish. Dame Edith half listened to the courtly conversation. She hoped this beautiful maiden would not provoke any jealousy between the two men whom Dame Edith also had a secret fondness for. They are good men, she thought, they have their passions and their weaknesses but they are pure at heart, good-willed, strong and courageous.
Alexander noticed how the exorcist was hardly eating but simply playing with the small, white loaf she had broken up on the silver salver before her. He reluctantly tore his eyes away from Emily.
‘Dame Edith,’ he said, ‘you are very quiet.’
‘Master clerk, my apologies, but I was thinking.’
‘About what?’ Alexander teased, revelling in Emily’s sweet smile. ‘Your visit to Oxford or perhaps your journeys elsewhere? You have travelled more than any person here.’
Dame Edith caught the hint and launched into a vigorous comparison of the University of Oxford with those at Padua and Genoa in northern Italy. Dame Constance, who had now overcome her shock at the blasphemy she had seen in the graveyard, breathed a sigh of relief and raised her hand as a sign for the steward to serve the splendid meal she had ordered. She made sure both the knight’s and the clerk’s wine cups were regularly filled and watched the wine, the good food, the presence of a beautiful woman and the marvellous anecdotes of the exorcist work their magic and ease the terrors of the day. The meal was a sumptuous one: swan cooked in chaudron, beef steaks roasted in a sauce of brown sugar, black pepper, ginger and cinnamon; salads garnished with pot herbs, green porrey made out of a mixture of vegetables; small, white loaves, lamb cooked in garlic and rosemary; peas and onions with civets and, to follow, honey toasted over pine nuts.
Dame Constance looked around at her guests, pleased that the meal was a success and, at an opportune time, declared she would retire. She left her guests chattering away. Even Dame Edith was laughing at McBain’s descriptions of trying to write in invisible ink. Dame Constance thanked her cook and kitchen retainers and went back to her own chamber. A servant had built up the fire and refilled the jug of wine warming in the inglenook. Dame Constance knelt at her prie-dieu, lit the two great candles fixed in iron spigots on either end and began her prayers. She softly chanted the psalm and thought she was dreaming when she heard her name called.
‘Constance! Constance! Oh, Constance, open the window!’
The abbess stood, one hand going to her mouth. It had been so many years since anyone had called her simply by that name, not since she had been a girl in her father’s manor and other children had come to invite her out to play.
‘Constance! Constance!’
The abbess hastened to the window, pulled back the shutters and looked out into the darkness. A cresset torch flickered near the entrance way, shedding some light, but not enough for the abbess to catch a glimpse of the caller.
‘Constance!’
The voice was much closer. She felt the ivy shift and move around her. She looked first to the right, then, immediately beneath her, she saw the figures, dressed completely in black, with dark-rimmed eyes and grinning mouths in pallid faces. It was a nightmare, she thought, and averted her eyes. But when she looked again they were still there – four, five figures clinging like black bats to the ivy, all grinning up at her. Dame Constance closed the shutters with a bang and ran screaming for the door.
Words between the pilgrims
‘By the cock!’ Harry the taverner declared, staring at the expectant faces of the pilgrims grouped around the great table of the taproom of the Tabard tavern. ‘By the cock!’ he repeated, ‘a nightmare story, sir knight. Please go on.’
The knight shook his head and pointed to the candle.
‘The hour’s growing late. Enough for one night. There is always tomorrow. Perhaps, after supper tomorrow, I can continue.’
‘But who are these killers?’ the fiery-faced summoner demanded. ‘Oh, come, sir knight, do not play such tricks or devices.’
‘No,’ Harry the taverner intervened. ‘The rules are set, the principles firmly laid down; each pilgrim is to tell his tale without carping interruptions.’
‘But do such
creatures exist?’ the pardoner asked, flicking his lank, yellow hair back from his thin, cadaverous face. ‘Strigoi, night-walkers, creatures from Hell? Sir knight, this is nonsense!’
A chorus of agreement greeted his words.
‘I am not too sure,’ the clerk of Oxford interrupted. ‘Sir knight, your story has woken memories – anecdotes, tales I have heard. Your description of the university is correct in all its forms. I do know there was a provost at Exeter Hall called Wakeham and, in the rolls of the city, Sir Oswald Beauchamp was the king’s sheriff.’ The Oxford clerk paused. ‘But was he not killed in a fire? And Proctor Ormiston? A strange fellow, whose disappearance from the university was cloaked in mystery.’
The clerk caught the knight’s unspoken plea for silence.
‘Why?’ the portly friar interrupted. ‘Are you saying this tale is true?’
‘I, too, recognize names,’ the poor parson declared, crouching next to this dirt-stained brother, the ploughman. He leaned forward, clutching the cord of the purse slung round his neck.
‘Whom do you know, Father?’ the knight asked.
‘Why the priest at St Peter’s, Father Andrew. In my younger years, when he served as a curate at a church in London. A holy man much given to works of charity.’
‘Ah, yes,’ the irrepressible Oxford clerk declared, one bony finger pointing to the ceiling. ‘St Peter’s has now been renovated. Father Andrew is dead – I have seen his tomb before the high altar. He was much revered for his good works.’
‘So, this story’s true?’ the franklin asked, scratching his snow-white beard.
‘I haven’t said that,’ the knight replied, glancing quickly at his son, who sat looking at him strangely.
‘But do such things exist?’ the hard-faced lawyer persisted.
‘I have told you,’ the wife of Bath trumpeted, ‘when I was on pilgrimage to the tomb of the Blessed Virgin at Cologne . . .’
‘More like looking for another husband,’ the monk snickered.
‘Well, even if I was, I certainly wouldn’t choose someone like you!’ the wife of Bath replied tartly. ‘I have heard about the Strigoi, the living dead.’ She adjusted her wimple, her podgy white hands flickering in the air. ‘No, no, listen, all of you. According to what I know, Strigoi are men and women possessed by evil spirits and these spirits make them live on human blood, which strengthens their bodies as well as the demons within.’
The wife of Bath drained her cup.
‘Whilst at a village just outside Cologne, I heard such a story about a young man called Ulrich, a tiller of the soil. Though physically strong and rarely ill, Ulrich began to have difficulty in breathing.’ The wife of Bath leaned her elbows on the table and beamed at her fellow pilgrims, pleased that she was now the centre of attention. ‘This began after a quarrel with his brother over a piece of land. Ulrich became weak and began to spit blood. He died and his body was buried in the local graveyard. Sixteen years later he reappeared in the village, claiming he had not died at all but had been dug out of his grave and revitalized by one of these Strigoi masters.’
‘What happened to him?’ the prioress asked, her large eyes rounded in fear.
‘Oh, he was burnt as a witch. But the important thing is that it confirms the knight’s story: these Strigoi are controlled by a hierarchy of masters and they never die unless destroyed by fire. What is more,’ the wife of Bath added warningly, ‘these Strigoi masters can appear as angels of light, lawyers, summoners, even pardoners.’
‘Who knows—?’ The nun’s priest spoke up in a thin, reedy voice. ‘Who knows, one of us could be a Strigoi.’
‘Is that possible?’ The cook, still chewing on a piece of dried meat, bawled down the table at the knight. ‘Sirrah, is that possible?’
The knight’s eyes never left the monk’s face. ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied quietly. ‘As my story says, such beings only reveal themselves either when they choose to do so or if, unwittingly, the sacrament or some great, holy relic is brought into their presence. Even then they will try to escape, gabble some excuse but, if they cannot—’ The knight paused and leaned back in his chair.
The pilgrims shivered as the great tavern creaked and groaned around them.
‘Go on!’ the shipman urged.
‘If they cannot,’ the knight continued, ‘they will reveal their true natures and it is the most terrible sight.’
The monk, now digging his berry-brown face into the largest tankard of ale Harry the taverner could provide, coughed, spluttering with laughter, and slammed the tankard down on to the table.
‘Nonsense!’ he declared in his rich, sonorous voice. ‘Tiddle-piddle stories to frighten children!’
‘Why do you say that?’ the knight gently asked.
‘Well, I have been with the Trinitarian friars in Oxford,’ the monk replied. ‘I have stayed in their guest house. I never heard of any legends about the Strigoi, tunnels or empty tombs. I am sure the good brothers would have informed me of them. Indeed, I studied a history of the house and I read no such legend there. So, it’s all fiddlesticks!’
The knight shrugged and smiled. ‘I never said it was true,’ he pointed out. ‘Mine host asked me to tell a tale. Whether you believe it or not . . .’ He spread his hands and pushed the chair back. ‘But now, good sirs, ladies, I must retire. I bid you good night.’
‘You’ll finish the tale tomorrow?’ the cook shouted.
‘Oh, yes,’ the knight promised. ‘Tomorrow my tale will be told!’
His son dutifully followed him out of the room and up to the chamber they had rented above the taproom. The squire lit the candles on the table and helped his father divest himself of his leather jerkin, taking from the saddle bag a clean nightshirt and fresh woollen leggings for the morrow. As he had on countless occasions, the squire watched his father stand beside the lavarium and wash his naked body. He felt the usual care tinged with fear at the horrible scars and wounds that marked the knight’s body from neck to toe. He had long stopped asking his father where such wounds were inflicted for, when he did, the same reply was given: ‘In the service of God and for the glory of the Church.’
‘Father?’
‘Yes,’ the knight answered wearily, towelling his body roughly and slipping the nightshirt over his head.
‘Father, is your story true?’
‘What do you think?’
The squire stared back and the knight grinned.
‘Then get some sleep, son. Tomorrow is another day and I have a different tale to tell.’
The squire undressed and lay on the pallet bed as the knight began the ceremony he performed every night. He pulled his great sword from its sheath, pressing its tip to the floor, and knelt before it, his hands on the crosspiece. He blessed himself and began to pray. The rite never changed: one paternoster, three aves and a special prayer the knight had memorized asking Christ to deliver him from all evils. After that the knight re-sheathed his sword, took a small leather bottle of holy water and blessed both their beds, making the sign of the cross above them. He then kissed the precious reliquary at his throat and climbed into bed.
The squire watched his father close his eyes.
‘Father?’
‘Yes, my son?’
‘What was Mother like?’
‘Beautiful as the night,’ the knight replied. ‘Dark raven hair, skin like silk, lustrous blue eyes and a smile you’d never forget.’
‘And she died giving birth to me?’ The squire always asked the same question.
The knight looked over, his eyes crinkled in a smile.
‘Don’t tax yourself. She caught a fever, weakened and died. I mourned her passing, but her soul is with God and her spirit comes back to watch over both of us.’
‘Is that why you left England?’
‘I am on my own crusade. I am searching for something and, when I find it, you will know.’
‘What do you think of our companions?’ the squire asked abruptly, propping himself up on an elbow. �
�The other pilgrims?’
‘A mixed crowd,’ his father replied. ‘The good, the bad and the indifferent. But a word of warning – keep well away from that monk!’
‘Why, Father? He likes hunting and I noticed he flirts with the prioress, but what harm can he do?’
‘Keep well away,’ the knight repeated. ‘Now, go to sleep. The hour is late and tomorrow our journey begins.’
‘One final question, Father?’
‘Ask it.’
‘Why are we going to Canterbury? I mean, to give thanks to the Blessed Martyr?’
‘To give thanks,’ the knight replied, ‘and to ask for his blessing.’
‘Will you make your confession there?’ the squire persisted. ‘And ask to be shriven?’
The knight laughed and propped himself up. ‘What do you know about my sins?’
‘Nothing.’ The squire quietly cursed himself. ‘It is just that before we left Minster Lovell, you killed a man down on the banks of the Windrush.’
‘He drew his sword and challenged me,’ his father replied. ‘I had no choice. I reported his death to the sheriff and my yeoman took an oath that I killed in self-defence. Now,’ he pulled the blanket up over his face, ‘go to sleep!’
The squire lay there, eyes staring into the darkness. Yes, he had heard about his father slaying the man near the river, as he had about other men his father had killed. But why? the squire sleepily wondered. Why did his father on certain occasions always ensure that the corpses of the men he killed be burned immediately?
They woke early the next morning, the taverner’s trumpeting voice rousing them from their slumbers. They joined the rest of the heavy-eyed pilgrims in the taproom to break their fast on bread, cheese, cold bacon and watered ale. After that, they collected their baggage and stood in the great cobbled yard as grooms and ostlers brought out their horses. There was a great deal of confusion, shouts, the neighing of horses and the jingle of harness. At last they were all mounted and Harry the taverner led them out on to the High Street of Southwark, past St George’s church and on to the old Roman road of Watling Street which would lead them south-east to Canterbury.